One Shots
by Hot Monkey Brain
Summary: This is where my one-shots live. Story number five: Cold. In Butters dreams, Kenny is always cold.
1. Waiting

**Authors Note: **I'm trying to get used to writing for South Park and thought a fun way to go about it might be to use a random word generator and try to write a short story based on the prompt. This idea is not original with me! There are several authors who use the same idea on FF. I have decided not to limit myself to a word count or subject however, mostly because my first prompt is turning out to be Godzilla disguised as a story.

I'll give warnings as the stories warrant.

I'm still working on 'That Future Thing', the new chapter should be up... um, before Christmas.

I hope you enjoy this and as ever, feel free to leave feedback. Liked, hated, thought I was OOC? Let me know where I went wrong so I don't make those mistakes in the future.

**Prompt: Waiting.**

**Warnings: Implied character death **(It's about Kenny! What else would you expect?)

**&&&**

Cartman was the first person to suggest Kenny did an experiment. They had been just kids when he approached the other boy and suggested they mark him in some way and then the next time he died, if the mark was still there, then he would know that his body had been remade and it wasn't just a new body that _looked _like the old one.

There were a lot of flaws with that plan, Cartman thinks now, not least being that if Kenny's body was reformed, who was to say that the scars he acquired would remain? But as a child, he hadn't thought like that. It was just a burning question; was the Kenny who returned the same one that died? He looked the same, sounded the same, acted the same. But was he _really_ the same? It seemed foolproof at the time, since scars were forever, even if death was not.

The flaws in the plan had never been an issue though, since Kenny had never let him carry out the experiment. Cartman had tried for weeks, pleading, bribing, bargaining. Kenny was usually up for anything, no matter how stupid, but on this occasion he refused to be swayed.

Cartman is still not sure if the scar test would have given the answers he wanted. Kenny didn't resurrect bearing the evidence of what killed him – that would have been more than a little impractical, since he was so often crushed, liquefied or blown apart. South Park is cold and it was rare that Cartman got to see Kenny without most of his body covered. On the rare occasions that he did, he was worried about checking for scars, worried that Kenny would get the wrong idea or something. Those fleeting, sidelong glances didn't give an answer. He saw no scars, but there was simply no opportunity to check more closely.

He still wants to know however; does Kenny's body somehow knit itself back together on the coroners table or buried beneath the ground? Did his soul ever return to it before the process was complete, returning to consciousness only to find his intestines still on the outside or his head still half-pulped, dying a second time before anyone realised he was alive once more? Or did he spring back whole, leaving his previous carcasses to rot where they were while he continued with his life where they left off, like a snake shedding its skin?

Waiting for Kenny to return, Cartman wonders if he will eventually ask those questions or if they will go on like before, pretending that Kenny has never been gone at all.

**&&&**

Stan always hopes that Kenny's strange gift will remain with him.

When they were younger, he couldn't bring himself to get truly upset over his friends many deaths. It wasn't familiarity, wasn't that it had happened too many times before and he was bored with it. Rather, it was to save his own sanity.

Grief, eating at him with sharp, rat-like teeth because Kenny was dead would suddenly become euphoria when the boy turned up as if nothing was out of the ordinary, replaced again by loss and sorrow, replaced again by joy – he couldn't do it. It left him feeling as if there was nothing between the two extremes and the rest of his life was on hold while Kenny flirted with the worlds of the living and the dead.

Instead, he forced himself to have a rather detached outlook on the matter. If Kenny was dead, he would be back. He couldn't keep on swinging between emotions. It was making him insane. The one time he had thought Kenny was truly dead, that he was never coming back, he hadn't been able to cope, had run from the knowledge that this time it might really be all over. He had wished for Kenny's return and prayed for it every night.

But when Kenny actually _did_ come back, yet again, he swore that was the last time he would let himself get emotional about it. It wasn't worth putting himself through that much trauma and stress for something that wasn't permanent, no matter how final it seemed.

And yet...

"_You never care when I die!"_

Kenny had yelled the words at Stan one day while Stan lamented the increasingly probable death of Kyle. Kyle had lived, Kenny hadn't. But Kenny was like Jason Voorhees, without the Final Friday. He always resurrected, unlike other people for whom death was the end.

Still, Kenny's angry shout, possibly one of the only times he ever referred to his own seeming immortality, came back to haunt him on occasion as the years went by. He wanted to tell Kenny that it wasn't that he didn't care, just that caring too much might drive him over the edge.

Now, waiting for Kenny to come back, he knows that he still won't tell him. He won't admit that he was always scared that Kenny's next death is the last. And that he is still scared of that, now more than ever.

**&&&**

Kyle wishes that Kenny would just be mortal.

It's not that he wants Kenny dead. But he wonders what kind of toll the constant returns to what passes for normality in South Park must bring to his friend. Kenny has been to the depths of Hell with the most depraved souls imaginable, to Heaven and the peace that most people strive a lifetime to achieve. He has fought alongside angels and demons, only to be dumped back on the planet and to the mundane once more.

Kenny has given his life on more than one occasion to save the lives of others. Sometimes, Kyle wonders if it's easier to do that when death is not permanent. He wonders if it's truly a heroic act on Kenny's behalf, or if it's the equivalent of doing detention for someone else.

If he were Kenny, he would have gone crazy.

Kenny seemed to deal with it by not thinking about it at all. He had a heightened sense of his own mortality, sometimes overly cautious, sometimes fatalistic. Aside from that, Kyle is certain that he has never made a big deal over his reanimation. Almost as if it were in some way embarrassing.

It seemed _wrong_. There was life, there was death and then there was reward. But for Kenny, it was a circle that had no end. Reincarnation without purpose. Days spent trying to avoid the next lethal incident. Death without what had been earned in life.

Kenny had spent half of his high school years wearing a T-shirt beneath his jacket that proclaimed _Heaven won't have me and Hell's afraid I'll take over_. Kyle had always thought – still thinks – it was fitting, but it was only later on, when school was over with, that he finally approached the question he wanted to ask. Kenny was so reluctant to discuss his constant deaths that it took Kyle a long time and mitigating circumstances to breach the unwritten rules of not mentioning it.

"Kenny?"

Kenny had looked at him, shoving a strand of blonde hair from his face. "What's up?"

"Does it hurt? Dying?"

Kenny shrugged, looking away from Kyle, clearly not wanting to answer but doing so anyway. "I don't know. Sometimes. Sometimes not." He had given Kyle a solemn look. "It doesn't have to."

It was the only time that they had ever, directly or indirectly, acknowledged Kenny's strangeness.

As Kyle waits for Kenny to come back, he isn't sure if avoiding the subject made things better or worse. All he knows is that Kenny deserves to be left alone for a while. And that he hopes Kenny's next death will be his last.

**&&&**

Kenny pauses as he enters the room, wondering if any of them realise he is there. He need not have concerned himself. After a few seconds, Cartman turns his head and glares at him, a silent command to get his butt in the room properly and stop messing about. Kenny has never quite gotten used to the way Cartman's forehead is caved in, the rivulets of blood that run down his face. At eighteen, the two of them were supposed to go to a party together but Kenny had been held up when hit by a freight train running late and going way too fast. Alone at the party, Cartman had been drinking heavily and angered by the other guests, announced, "Screw you guys, I'm going home!" Only he had taken his car and never made it home. The tree he ploughed into remains, the damage done by the car still obvious.

"Shit Kenny, took you long enough!"

"Shut up Cartman," Stan interjected, turning to look at Kenny so that Kenny could see the missing flap of skin in his cheek and the few unbroken teeth that remained within. At twenty-three, Stan and Kenny had been on their way to Kyle's to watch some movies and stopped at the liquor store to buy some beer and snacks. While they were there, two guys had tried to rob the place, both armed, both addicts and both jittery. The cashier made a false move and gunfire had sprayed around the store. There had been no survivors, unless Kenny counted – he died there too, but resurrected a couple of days later.

"Hey Kenny," said Kyle casually, his smile not seeming right on his gaunt face. At twenty-five, he had started feeling unwell, had a bunch of tests done and come out with bad news. At twenty-seven, he had asked Kenny about dying. Fifteen minutes after that, Kenny had alerted the doctors that Kyle had stopped breathing, by which time it was far too late to help him.

"Hey guys," says Kenny casually, dropping into his usual seat beside Cartman. As always, he wonders why this is happening. He had always gone straight to Heaven or Hell upon dying, until Cartman's idiotic drunk-driving stunt. Now he comes here when he dies. A plain room, featuring white walls, plastic chairs and no distractions, save for those afforded by his friends.

He wonders why they are hanging around here, when usually people are taken into their destinies immediately after death. Why they have been allocated a waiting room instead of whatever awaits them beyond it. Why they have a bond that cannot be severed by death.

And he hopes that this is his final time, the last time he dies, so they can all move on from this room and to whatever lies beyond it.


	2. Outlaw

**Prompt: **Outlaw

**Warnings: **Slash, Creek. Do not try anything within this story at home.

**Author Note: **I've been totally obsessed with Creek stuff lately and when this idea came to my head, I decided to run with it. This is the very first time I've tried anything slashy, so any comments about how to improve are welcomed. Yikes, I'm seriously worried about posting now... GAH! The pressure!

**&*&*&*&**

Mayor McDaniels had informed the press of the announcement she had to make twenty-four hours in advance. It made the local paper and radio station and most of the town turned out to hear what was to be said. An announcement usually indicated that they would be in for an interesting, if aggravating week.

The majority of South Parks teenagers showed up too, since no matter what happened on the steps of the town hall usually had some major, dramatic effect on them. Forewarned was not always forearmed, but at least it gave them a hint.

Craig rarely bothered with the meetings – he liked his life nice and boring, thank you very much – but since he had been 'studying' with Token (actually copying his maths homework) and Token had insisted on attending, Craig had tagged along. Spotting Clyde off to one side of the crowd, they made their way over to him and exchanged greetings and idle speculations as to what the latest drama could be about. By the time the appointed time arrived, the crowd was quite thick, but in spite of that, they saw several people they went to school with – Timmy and Jimmy toward the back of the crowd where they were less likely to get jostled and of course, Stan, Kyle and Kenny right at the front.

_No Cartman though_, thought Craig with a smirk. The fat boy had recently taken to swiping Tweek's Thermos from his locker and drinking it himself – Craig had only discovered this by accident since rather than confront him, Tweek had merely brought a second flask and kept it in his bag. Three days before, Craig had waited for Tweek to leave his Thermos in the locker and then broke into it himself, lacing the coffee with laxatives, then waited around in hiding until he spied Cartman heading down the corridor only fifteen minutes into first period. Sure enough, he removed the drink and swallowed it all in four large gulps. If there was one thing Tweek could do well, it was make excellent coffee.

It was a shame they didn't share second period, Craig reflected later when the news of what had happened reached him. It meant that he had to brave the boys bathroom between lessons, when lesser mortals had given the room and indeed the corridor, a wide berth. Trying not to breathe, he walked in and slammed a hand against the only occupied stall. "Hey Eric!"

"Fuck off Craig, I'm busy!"

"Well, maybe you shouldn't drink things you find in other peoples lockers," chuckled Craig.

There was a moments silence, followed by noisy exhalations from both ends of the other boy. "I'll _kill_ you Craig! I'll make you eat your parents! You hear me? _I'm gonna get you for this_!"

"Whatever fatass." Craig strolled out of the bathroom, grinning widely. Cartman had not been seen since and Craig had been feeling extremely pleased with himself.

Mayor McDaniels tapped on the microphone and cleared her throat, indicating that she was ready to start and Craig reluctantly focused his attention on her. Whatever it was, it was unlikely to have any major effect on them, since he made a point of avoiding as much of the towns drama as possible.

"Ladies and gentlemen, recently a young man from our town has brought to my attention an evil presence in our town. An insidious, terrible evil that has enslaved our workforce, affected our economy and corrupted our children!"

_Cats again_, thought Craig, bored.

"We can only thank Eric Cartman for discovering and sharing with me the horrific effects of this addictive, mind-altering substance..."

Craig's head shot up as Cartman, previously hidden from his view by the crowd, rose from his seat and acknowledged the audience. The boy seemed recovered from his recent ordeal, his eyes scanning the people as if searching for someone in particular.

"And reassure the people of South Park that as of this moment, the sale, production or possession of coffee within the town limits is against the law and punishable by imprisonment!"

A cheer met this statement, the crowd caught up with the moment. It would be the next morning when, suffering from caffeine withdrawal and the inability to properly awaken, that the townspeople would question how good of an idea this was.

Token scowled. "That means Tweek's parents are out of work!"

"And Tweek is gonna be going cold turkey..." Clyde shuddered.

Craig's mouth dropped open as he stared at the scene, hands hanging by his sides, too stunned for even the obligatory hand gesture. However Cartman had managed to pull this one off, it meant that Tweek's life was about to get horribly difficult.

And it was all Craig's fault.

As he tried to process the information, Cartman's gaze finally sought him out and their eyes met. Cartman grinned maliciously and flipped him off.

~:~

School the next day was best described as... hellish.

On the steps of the town hall, a contingent of shaky-looking Goths had braved the early hour (or quite possibly been there all night) to form a protest, nicotine consumption gone way up without the added addiction to keep them steady. It was thought however that their protest was a little disorganised. Bauhaus was not ideal protest music and the signs slogans were less than catchy. _You'll take my coffee when you pry it from my corpse. You'd like that, like to see us all dead. Bastards._

Harbucks was closed, the door and windows nailed closed while shocked-looking people milled around outside, not entirely sure how to progress with the day without their skinny latte. ATF vans were parked in the streets, agents raiding supermarkets and removing any trace of coffee from the shelves.

Craig waited impatiently by his locker, the one next to Tweek's by virtue of alphabetical order. There was no sign of the blonde boy, although if he hadn't been concerned he would have enjoyed the sight of the dishevelled teachers scrubbing at their eyes and snapping irritably at everyone they encountered. There had been no response to his texts and none of their friends had heard from him.

The warning bell rang and the hallway began to empty. Craig lingered a little longer, wondering if Tweek had simply decided to skip off school and lie in bed shrieking – what the hell were the effects of sudden massive coffee withdrawal anyway?

As he went to leave, he saw a figure heading his way but it took him a few seconds and a major double-take before he realised it was Tweek. The boy was still twitching nervously – nothing would ever cure him of that it seemed – but usually he would be clinging to his bag, eyes darting nervously around to see who or what might be watching him, scurrying because he was late. Instead, his feet dragged on the floor, bag looking as though it might fall off his shoulder any moment. His hands were jammed firmly in his pockets and his head was down, eyes on the floor. He didn't see Craig until he was practically standing beside him.

"Tweek?"

"Huh?" Tweek didn't scream at being taken by surprise, a definite first. "Oh. Hey."

Craig frowned at the flat, monotonous tone Tweek used. "You alright?"

"T-tired. Headache." Tweek opened his locker and stared at the contents, seeming at a loss for what to do next.

Becoming slightly alarmed at the complete turnaround in his friends behaviour, Craig tried another tack. "Have you tried energy drinks?"

"Not the same," replied Tweek listlessly, closing the locker without taking anything out. "And they're e-expensive. My dad just lost his job. Gotta save money or we'll end up in the house next to the McCormick's and I'll have to become a rent boy to pay for college. Or something."

Craig didn't like Tweek's new attitude one bit. "Isn't that a lot of pressure?"

"Meh. I don't care. Gotta have energy to care."

Tweek wandered off down the hall, leaving Craig to wonder if someone had replaced the other boy with a pod person He'd seen stressed Tweek, hyper Tweek, pissed off Tweek, happy Tweek and the memorable week and a half of punk Tweek. Emo Tweek was just... _wrong_. There had to be something he could do, without resorting to sitting on the steps of City Hall with the Goths.

Resigning himself to a lecture for being late to History, he made his way to the classroom which, just his luck, was all the way over the other side of school. He paused for a second outside, steeling himself for everyone's stares as he came in – he _hated_ it when that happened – when the door flew open and Stan Marsh came barrelling out, slamming the door shut behind him. Something heavy hit the other side of the closed door a moment later.

"What the hell...?"

Stan shook his head. "Don't go in there. Miss Sutherland's gone nuts! I got a question wrong and she started shouting about fucking men, sent me to the Principals office and threw a history of Nazi Germany at me!"

"The thin one?"

"The _unabridged_."

"Ouch."

"Sixteen hours without coffee and society crumbles," said Stan ominously. "Fucking Cartman. He's doing alright out of this whole thing."

"How?"

"Before the Mayor announced the ban, he went out and bought every can of Red Bull, Relentless and Rockstar in town. Anyone wants caffeine, they have to go to him – and he's charging double."

Craig's mood, not great to start with, took a turn for the worse. "Rat bastard asshole!"

"Yeah. I better get to the Principals office, before she comes out and starts chasing me around again. Damn, this town sucks. What's the betting there's an angry mob involved in this before the end of the week?"

"I'm not taking that bet."

"Right. Actually, screw the Principals office. I think I'm gonna go dig out my Poe shirt and head to the Town Hall."

Stan took off while Craig gave serious consideration to just ditching history – but he spent so much time in the Guidance Councillors office that he really couldn't afford to miss any more work if he wanted to graduate at the same time as everyone else. Instead, he pushed the door open.

Miss Sutherland looked up at him with a murderous expression. "You're late!"

"I, uh..."

The teacher picked up a thick volume on Colonial America and hurled it at him. Craig, who wasn't as fast as Stan, woke up much later in the nurses office and spent the rest of the morning nursing a minor concussion and a bruise right between the eyes.

And making plans.

~:~

Craig had a learners permit and his parents would never let him borrow the car, but his dad was out and his mom and kid sister were engrossed in some girly film, so he simply took the keys and went. If his guess was accurate, it would take him about an hour to drive to North Park and pick up some sweet caffeinated goodness. His first act upon returning to town would be to call Tweek and get the boy his drug. When his friend was back to normal, he could go about selling the rest, thereby putting Cartman out of business.

It was the perfect plan.

Of course, once he re-entered South Park with the coffee, he would officially be breaking the law. He'd be a smuggler, an outlaw. The idea appealed to him. It wasn't like he was a real criminal, he reasoned with himself. It was more of a Robin Hood thing, bringing the people what they needed. And there was no harm in making a few bucks on the side.

He spent almost all his money at the supermarket, stocking up on every kind of coffee imaginable. The woman at the checkout gave him some strange looks as she scanned the items through, but he fed her some bullshit line about an all-night study session and she let it go. If she'd thought about it, with this much coffee he'd be up for a month rather than a night.

On an impulse, he stopped at a coffee house nearby and spent his last ten bucks on takeout cappuccinos. He could stop at Tweek's on the way back and give them to him. Maybe then Tweek would be back to normal instead of the caffeine-deprived depressive he'd turned into that day.

Driving back to South Park with a trunk full of coffee, Craig realised that the clouds that had been gathering throughout the afternoon had blocked out the moon and as he hit the road leading back into South Park, the first drops of rain hit the windscreen. Two minutes later the shower had turned into a deluge, the water mixing with the snow and dirt on the road and as Craig drove down the road, the wheels churned up the mess and coated the car in dirt. Sighing, he turned the wipers on high and struggled to see through the downpour, hoping the rain would wash the car clean before he got home, or that he had chance to hose it down before his dad saw it. Otherwise he was going to _freak_ and Craig didn't like the idea of explaining he'd borrowed the car to do some smuggling.

But South Park was close and pretty soon, he'd be able to get Tweek back to normal – well, normal for Tweek – and make some money on the side. He'd put Eric Fucking Cartman out of business. And maybe he could hold the teachers to a 'good grade' ransom too...

He didn't notice the cop car until he was nearly on top of it.

In the short time he'd been out of South Park, the road into town had gained a new signpost – _stop here for contraband checks._ The familiar figure of Officer Barbrady was sitting in the drivers seat of the police car, presumably to check all the cars entering town.

And Craig had enough coffee in his car to wire the whole town.

Hoping that Barbrady was asleep, he kept the cars speed steady and passed through the stop sign, trying to look casual. Hopefully, the dirt coating the car had obscured the licence plate and the rain would make it hard to see his appearance through the windows.

The flashing lights on the cop car came on, the engine roaring into life as it followed Craig.

_Shit!_

For a second he hesitated. If he stopped and pretended he hadn't seen the sign, then perhaps Barbrady wouldn't bother searching the car, considering how bad the weather was and how a search would mean standing out in the rain. Then he reconsidered. He would have to show his licence no matter what and he only had a learners permit. He'd be arrested and the car searched anyway. Plus, Barbrady wasn't likely to be in a lenient mood, what with his probable coffee withdrawal.

He put his foot on the accelerator and sped away from the police car.

The streets were not in an ideal condition for a high-speed chase. The water and snow meant that the roads were treacherous and every corner meant a good chance of rolling the car over. Craig tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he headed down Main Street, taking a glance in the rear view mirror to see if Barbrady had given up. No such luck. The only bright spot in the whole affair was that they were the only cars on the road, thanks to the bad weather.

Craig doubted that he could get all the way through South Park and on the road to Denver without being busted. The best plan was to lose Barbrady somehow and wait until he could get the car home unseen. But how the hell was he gonna lose Barbrady?

He took a sharp right and quickly realised his mistake. On this road, he would only pass a few farms and from there it was a straight road back out of town, where Barbrady could easily keep him in sight. He might even have called for backup. The last thing he needed was to appear on TV chased down by a police helicopter.

He looked over his shoulder and saw the cop car round the corner. Cursing, he turned his attention back to the road, only to realise there was a fence directly ahead of him and there was no way he was going to make the turn in time. With a panicked yell he hit the brakes, but the wheels locked and the car ploughed straight through the fence and into the field beyond, causing some soggy cows to scatter. The car continued through the field, gradually slowing, and rolled into a conveniently open barn, where it came to a halt as it bumped into some bales of hay.

Craig spent a couple of moments taking deep breaths and trying to slow his heart down, then opened the door and leapt out. Peering out of the barn, he was just in time to see Officer Barbrady's car approach the broken fence – and then continue on the road, apparently not noticing the damage and assuming his quarry was still running.

Relieved, Craig went back to his car, determined to wait it out for a while. As far as he could work out, he was on the Denkin's farm and that was bad – Carl Denkin shot trespassers on sight and that was when they _hadn't_ just trashed his fence. But hopefully, once Barbrady had given up looking for him, the farmer would be in bed and maybe he could just drive away without anyone noticing.

Of course, that meant waiting in the barn for the time being.

He checked the damage to the front of the car – nothing too major, a couple of small dents and some scraped paint, maybe he could blame it on someone reversing into the car as it sat in the driveway – and his gaze went to the window and the cars interior. The coffee he had purchased to go would probably be cold, but it reminded him of the main reason he'd been sneaking coffee into town in the first place. Grabbing his cell, he flipped it open and called Tweek. It wouldn't hurt to let him know to wait up for when Craig came over with his stash.

Tweek took a few rings to answer the phone. "Hello."

"Tweek, it's me. You still up?"

"Gnk! Yeah!"

A _gnk_ was an encouraging sign, perhaps Tweek was behaving more like himself. "Great, stay awake. I'll be over in about an hour."

"An hour! You only live five minutes away!"

"Yeah, well... I'm actually hiding out in a barn on Denkin's farm."

"Jesus Christ, get away from there Craig! He'll kill you if he sees you!"

"I can't go yet." Craig wondered if it was a good idea to tell Tweek what had happened, since it would only get him worked up, then decided to tell anyway. It'd make him sound rebellious and cool. "Barbrady was after me. I gotta make sure I lost him."

"GAH!" Yup, that was the Tweek he knew and loved, in a totally platonic and manly way of course. He'd probably been swilling cheap generic cola to get over the coffee withdrawal. "The cops! Shit! We gotta hide you! I'll be there as soon as I can!"

The line went dead and Craig took the phone from his ear and stared at it as if he'd never seen it before. Taking a definite course of action without being cajoled, bullied or manipulated into it certainly _wasn't _Tweek's style. It was probably because he couldn't wait an hour for the coffee – although, thinking back over the conversation, Craig wasn't sure he'd gotten as far as mentioning the coffee.

_He probably won't show anyway,_ he thought to himself, keeping an eye out at the barn door for any signs of police cruisers, or crazy redneck farmers. _He'll spazz out and still be running around panicked when I drive over there._

After twenty minutes or so, he was beginning to relax. There had only been one set of headlights passing on the distant road and they hadn't even slowed down. Denkin hadn't put in an appearance. His parents hadn't called his cell to ask why their car had been involved in a police chase. Even the rain was slacking off. So when he saw movement from among the trees, at first he thought it was one of the cows he'd almost killed getting brave enough to investigate.

As the shadows moved he saw it was a person, a black-clad figure trying to sneak through the field without being seen. Just for a second, he wondered if Barbrady was trying to apprehend him through stealth or maybe Denkin had decided he needed to get closer to shoot him for a trespasser. Then he noticed the persons familiar shape and the nervousness of the movements.

He shook his head in disbelief. Tweek. That boy never failed to surprise him. Sticking his head out of the barn, first checking for Denkin, he called out.

Tweek spotted him and dashed toward the barn, pulling Craig inside where there was no chance of them being seen. Craig was amused to note that Tweek had gone all-out for his mission, dressed from head to toe in black – he was wearing a hoodie _and_ a balaclava. The only part of his face visible were his panicked hazel eyes.

"Here." Tweek pulled a second balaclava out of his pocket and handed it to Craig. "Put this on so – _gnk_ – no one recognises you. We gotta get out of here!"

"Whoa, chill Tweek." Craig smirked as he took the balaclava anyway. "What, are you a ninja now or something?"

"I just wanted to blend in!"

"So no swords?"

"Gah!"

Craig leant against the car. "You didn't have to come out here y'know. I'm fine and you got yourself soaked."

Tweek snorted. "And it's not even like I can have a coffee to warm up."

"Well..." Craig turned and leaned inside the car, pulling out the cardboard container with the takeout coffee stashed in it, mostly unspilled in spite of the car chase. "It's probably cold, but it's coffee."

Tweek stared, then pushed the hood down and yanked off the balaclava, which had messed up his hair worse than usual. "You brought coffee into South Park! It's illegal!"

Craig grinned as Tweek grabbed the container off him, "You don't even drink that much coffee! Shit! We gotta hide the evidence right now!"

Obviously deciding that the best way to dispose of the coffee was to ingest it, Tweek popped the top off the first cup and finished it in three long swallows. Craig left him to it while he went to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. "Uh, Tweek?"

Finishing the second cup, Tweek opened the third and final drink before walking around to see what was up, visibly calmer. "Yeah?"

Craig reclined against the trunk in a casual manner, indicating to the stash of coffee inside. "There's a lot more evidence to hide."

Tweek's mouth dropped open as he gazed at the caffeinated goldmine, then at Craig. For a few moments he just looked, then he darted forward, put a hand on the back of Craig's head and, pulling him forward, kissed him. Hard.

Craig's eyes flew wide open as he had the chance to register the taste of coffee that lingered on the other boys lips and the warmth of the mouth on his, but somewhere along the line his brain had short-circuited.

A couple of seconds later Tweek pulled away and glanced back into the trunk. "You're fucking insane."

Craig merely stared, not moving, words completely failing him. Tweek had kissed him. The boy _never _failed to surprise him.

"You're crazy! I mean, shit! We have to get out of here! We have to hide all this stuff!"

"Uh... did you just kiss me?"

Tweek raced around to the front of the car, dropping his last coffee in agitation. "Come on! Before someone finds us!"

A voice in Craig's head told him it might be a good idea to leave stunned mode behind for the time being and get moving before Tweek totally spazzed out. But damn. He could still taste coffee.

"_Craig_! Shit!"

Forcing himself to move, Craig slammed the trunk closed and got into the drivers seat, Tweek jumping into the passenger side. Starting the engine made the blonde give a quiet shriek of nervousness, so Craig drove the car through the field as fast as he dared and got back out onto the road. There was no sign of Barbrady's cruiser anywhere and the rain had finally stopped.

He negotiated the roads in confused silence. A part of him wondered if he'd imagined the whole thing – it had happened and been over with so _fast _- but he only had to run his tongue over his lips to disabuse himself of that notion. Incidentally, he had been doing just that since he got behind the wheel.

Three blocks before they reached Tweek's house, he pulled the car over to the side of the road and shut off the engine. Tweek twitched violently, staring sideways at Craig, although Craig kept his eyes firmly forward.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"GAH! D-don't ask me that!"

"Did you do it because I had coffee?"

"No!" Tweek leant forward and locked his hands in his hair. "I'm not _totally_ obsessive! I did it because you went out and _got _the coffee."

"Uh, it's not all for you," said Craig, studying his hands intently rather than look up. "I'm gonna sell some."

Tweek shot him an irritated glance. "Well, _duh_."

Startled into a laugh, Craig finally managed to look at Tweek, who continued talking. "I d-did it 'cause you went and got it and called me first and got me takeout and – y'know, maybe I'm a little dependant on coffee..."

Craig rolled his eyes. A little dependant. Classic Tweek understatement.

"And I don't think you would have done it just for the money because – _gnk – _getting it was a pain in the ass. So I – Jesus, I am _not_ having this conversation! This is _way too much pressure_!"

"Tweek." Craig reached out and disentangled Tweek's hands from his hair before he could pull it out by the roots. "Chill out. And fuck conversation."

Leaning forward, he pulled Tweek closer and kissed him back.

~:~

Craig's life as an outlaw, with Tweek as his partner in crime, lasted three days. Then it got to the weekend and the Sunday morning hangovers, which were a norm for many of the townsfolk, kicked in with a vengeance. With no coffee to wash down the aspirin and take the bleariness off the traditional exhaustion, the people of South Park formed the sickest-looking angry mob since the last zombie incident. In spite of the relative quiet – it was hard to get a good protest roar going on when half the crowd were clutching their heads and moaning – Mayor McDaniels revoked the law against coffee, since she hadn't realised how vital the substance was to those in a high pressure job, including herself. The mob gave a muted cheer and crawled back to bed.

The Goths were mildly disappointed. They had discovered that drinking coffee when it was illegal was far more enjoyable than buying it from Benny's and besides, being persecuted made them happy.

Cartman was pissed off. The sudden appearance of illegal coffee had flooded the market and killed his energy drink business dead. He had expected to make a fortune before the town came to its senses; instead when coffee was legalised, he still had enough Red Bull in his basement to see him through four years of college cram sessions. And no money.

Worse still, his revenge on Craig had backfired spectacularly.

The Monday morning after the coffee ban was lifted, Cartman spent the entire time at his locker bitching to Kyle about the situation, until Kyle finally managed to get his stuff out of his locker and take off. Deprived of his unwilling audience, Cartman slammed his locker shut and noticed Craig and Tweek stood by their own lockers, talking about something. As he watched, Craig glanced over to him and he muttered something to the blonde, who chuckled.

Cartman glared at them. "I hate you guys."

Smirking, Craig threw an arm around Tweek's shoulders and the pair of them flipped him off.


	3. Grave

**Author Note: **No prompt this time. This has been hanging around on my computer for a while and I decided I had to either post it or delete it. So I'm posting. I hope you enjoy! Leave a review if you did, or if you spot any horrible mistakes. As always, my huge thanks to everyone who reviewed my last one-shot (so long ago... it was my first attempt at slash and gave me the nerve to post AEBH online). New chapter of Possessions, for those of you who keep track, should be out in a couple of days.

_**&*&*&*&*&**_

I approach the cemetery, my feet crunching on the fresh snow that lays on the ground. No one else has been this way today and that's fine by me, I don't want to be seen anyway.

The headstones are arranged to look aesthetically pleasing, Set in neat rows, some aged and overgrown, giving way to the more recent ones with some attempt at grounds keeping made and wilting flowers marking that at some point, someone wanted to show they cared.

And then there's the grave I'm looking for.

KENNETH JAMES McCORMICK.

You can see the original dates, if you look hard enough, you can see where they sanded off the first date of death and tried to add another. And another. You can see where they gave up and just added the dates beneath. But mostly, you can see the heavy marker pen that some people would say is desecrating the stone.

IF YOU'RE LOOKIN FOR KENNY, HE AIN'T HERE. LEAVE A MESSAGE.

I know the writing. I was with him when he drew over the stone, laughing to himself but sounding bitter even as he did it. Death was an inconvenience to him, but to me – it was when we were forced to let go. When I came here to be close to him. When I skip school because I need to be near him and this is the only way I know how, even though he isn't here. Unless this is the last time they put him here. But they've been fooled before.

The cemetery is silent.

I don't want to speak. I know some people talk to the headstone as if the dead can talk to them, but if Kenny is anywhere right now, it's not here.

Instead, I sit on the ground, using the headstone to rest my back against, remembering the markings.

LEAVE A MESSAGE.

What message?

I lean my head back, looking into the sky. The sun is so low it almost blinds me and snow is soaking through the seat of my jeans and freezing my ass.

What message would I leave, if this is truly my only chance to say goodbye?

"I love you," I whisper to the sky. "I love you and I wish, if you can't be here, that I could be there."

"You are insane."

The voice startles me and I look around, moving so quick that I hurt my neck. Kenny stands a couple of feet away from me. He knew where to look. This is always the first place I go when he has one of his little – mortality incidents.

"You're going to freeze," he adds, offering his hand. I grab it and let him pull me to his feet. He puts his other hand to my hip as I stumble forward from the force of the pull, leaning into my neck.

"I love you too, douche bag," he murmurs into my ear, breath tickling my skin. "And I wish you'd stop doing this. I'll always be back. And I'll always come back to you."

I know he means it and I know it makes no difference. I'll still be here when he comes back, waiting by his grave. And I'll never truly believe that he'll come back until he proves it, until I see him again and we can go back to our lives together.


	4. Communication

**Author Note: **Again, no prompt. I found this on my computer while mooching through my many half-completed, begun-but-ran-outta-steam stories. It was missing a couple of paragraphs at the end, so I added them and decided I liked it well enough to post. I suppose there is implied slash, but it's barely a whisper I'm afraid. As always, huge thanks to all the people who have reviewed these one-shots so far. I love you guys!Hope you enjoy the new one!

**~:~:~:~:~:~**

Gregory struggled his way back to consciousness, even though there was a part of his mind, the part that made up the majority vote, that wanted to forget it and drift away again; his head ached dreadfully and most of his body was numb in a way that suggested when he began moving again it was going to hurt. But he was stubborn to the core and these things also told him that something was amiss; there was no way to rectify the situation if he was out cold.

Whatever had caused the pain in his head was messing up his short term memory, as he fought his way back to consciousness he tried to piece together what had led him to this situation, whatever it was. He had been...

_With Christophe, they were on a mission East, hired to end a plot to sabotage a new, shaky democracy with terrorist tactics. The whole group was holed up in one place, preparing to put their plan into action, a headquarters masquerading as a legitimate business, a factory._

Had that happened today? Last week, last month? The images bore the hallmarks of recent memory, but in his semi-conscious state, it was hard to be accurate. He struggled to _think_ against the comforting dark that wanted to claim his mind.

_It was a cakewalk, the group inexperienced, more enthusiastic than efficient. An explosive device had been set off three days previously and a deadline set, either the new Government resigned or there would be further attacks. The clock was ticking, there were barely twelve hours left until the deadline ended and speed was of the essence. But with the main players in the same place, it would be a simple matter to dispatch them all. _

_A few explosive devices of their own, Gregory had decided. Sabotage, subterfuge, sneak attack. Less risky than bursting in with all guns blazing and the amount of dynamite and Semtex on the premises would ensure that the whole place went sky-high. And anyway, there were simply to many of them to risk a shoot-out; anyone escaping could cause problems and they would have to risk having others along on the mission. And there was no one else Gregory trusted with this level of secrecy, save for Christophe. It had to be just the two of them. _

_Bypassing security had been laughably easy. They hadn't had to enter any of the more populated areas of the factory, merely skirt around the outer reaches of the building planting their devices. They had allotted themselves thirty minutes to get in and out unseen, not a problem. The riskiest part of the job would be the timers themselves – they were set to go off at 2100 hours, as night was falling. The deadline the terrorists had given ended at 1000 hours the following morning and if the group made their move early, Gregory and Christophe would be forced to act. It was four hours from them entering the building until detonation and although Christophe bitched that it was unnecessarily cautious, Gregory preferred to leave as little as possible up to chance._

_For good reason. It was chance that had screwed them over._

_Gregory had used the inexperience of the group against them, but he hadn't reckoned on their lack of expertise actually helping them out. As he was making his way back to the rendezvous point – he could actually see Christophe's shadow and was almost prepared to relax, thinking it was all over bar the escape and the explosions._

_Only the explosion had come early, the building suddenly echoing with the force of a blast._

_Gregory turned back, startled, trying to figure out what had happened. A part of him was braced for inevitable death, the falling rubble and searing flames that should have consumed him, but there was only that ominous, distant noise. It occurred to him that had it been one of the bombs he had planted, there would be far more devastation and yet that had definitely been something exploding, which suggested that someone in the organisation had messed up their own preparations. It was their good fortune that the blast had not affected Gregory's devices, or else the whole thing would have been over._

_But the noise had attracted people from all over the building and any hopes of Gregory and Christophe sneaking out of the factory were over. As Gregory dashed over toward Christophe in the hopes that they might still be able to salvage something from the incident, a man ran into the corridor and spied them, shouting a warning in the moment before Christophe loomed behind him and stabbed him in the back of the neck with a short handled blade._

"_We're fucked," snapped Christophe. _

"_Not yet," replied Gregory as more people, alerted by the shouts, discovered their location. "They don't know what they're doing, there might still be a way out of here."_

"_Zey're not going to go easy on us just because zey're beginners," muttered Christophe, hand hovering over his gun but not pulling it out._

"_Well, if we don't find a way out of here, it'll all be over by twenty-one-hundred anyway." Gregory glanced over his shoulder and saw more advancing men. "We're not shooting our way out of this one. We're surrounded and there's too many of them."_

Gregory risked opening an eye, finally aware enough to take stock of his injuries and surroundings. He was in a smallish, bare room, possibly once used as an office. The brickwork had been painted over but was peeling and there was no furniture of any kind, the only illumination a dim, low-wattage light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Gregory was tied with rope by his hands and feet, his arms then fastened behind his back and attached to a pair of pipes that ran around the base of the room, left in such a position that his shoulders were angled uncomfortably and his neck ached. The rope was thick, cutting into his skin.

To his left was Christophe, similarly attached to the pipes, head lolling on his shoulder so Gregory couldn't see his face. But something about the shadows around him made Gregory frown. Although the angle and the light was bad, it was as if there was something covering the top half of his head. It would have made more sense if their captors cared about protecting their identity, but if that were the case, why was _Gregory_ allowed sight?

Belatedly, Gregory realised his mouth was dry, swollen and sore. He tried to lick his lips to moisten them and tensed when he discovered he was unable to. His mouth wasn't opening and trying to force it caused a pulling, tearing sensation in his lips and the surrounding flesh. A probe with the tip of his tongue discovered some alien presence surrounding his mouth, between his lips and coating his teeth. Something solid that gripped his mouth closed tight.

His mind suddenly threw up a new memory; of being tied to the pipe while one of the men paced the room, demanding answers and occasionally backing them up with kicks and blows and threats. _Who sent you? Who are you working for? Are there more of you? What is your mission?_

Christophe had remained silent, mostly because he didn't follow much of the language, glaring furiously at their captors in such a way that they were clearly uncomfortable and intimidated in spite of their superior position. Gregory had used his own tactics, making glib comments and smug, amused observations that told them exactly nothing, although_ he_ had elicited some information by virtue of his mocking questions. The group had taken one look at the blonde and assumed he couldn't understand what they were saying, until he spoke clearly and fluently and it obviously worried them that they may have said too much without realising they could be understood.

The interrogation hadn't lasted very long and had been unsuccessful as far as the terrorists were concerned. The deadline they had imposed was running out and there was too much for them to be doing to spend enough time 'persuading' Gregory and Christophe to give information – and Gregory, although he said nothing, was well aware of his _own_ deadline; in a short time the building would be so much scattered rubble that their remains might not even be found.

"_We cannot waste any more time on these two spies," snapped one of the men, clearly in some kind of leadership role. "We have important work to do."_

"_But they tell us nothing!" A man whose last action had been to aim a steel toe-cap into Gregory's ribs, spoke agitatedly. "That one just laughs at us and that one, he – he keeps _looking _at me!"_

_Gregory smirked, knowing without having to glance at Christophe exactly what was upsetting the man. Christophe was master of the death glare, a look that clearly stated murderous intent without the use of words. Used briefly, it was unnerving, but Christophe had been wearing the expression since they were taken down and that did bad things to a persons peace of mind._

"_So stop them looking, or stop them talking, but just make sure they can't escape." The leader waved an arm dismissively. "We can find out what they know later, but for now, there are more important things to consider."_

Gregory scowled as he tried to piece together other, hazier memories, made unclear by a wicked blow to the head. Just their luck to get the damn sadist. Most people would have been happy with some kind of gag, but not this guy, oh no. While Gregory was dazed and unable to fight back, the man had simply glued his mouth closed.

_What an idiot,_ thought Gregory. _How do they expect me to tell them anything if my speech is impaired? At least a gag can be removed!_

Damn, he was thirsty.

He had no idea what kind of damage had been done to him with the substance. There were glues that were non-toxic but it was unlikely that they would be able to bind his skin as this one had. There was every possibility that it was a chemical stew, perhaps poisonous if there was any in his throat (although there couldn't be much, if he could still breathe) or maybe burning his skin. They'd have to find something that would dissolve it and that could take a while, in the meantime he was stuck without being able to take even a sip of water. Very, very bad news.

Well, his mouth wasn't a necessity for getting out of the situation, although Gregory would have preferred to know just how long they had been unconscious. Common sense told him it might have been as long as an hour, which made their situation a lot more serious. As long as they were considered spies rather than saboteurs it was unlikely anyone would think to search for the bombs, but if they remained prisoner much longer they would be dying in short order, along with the people they had been hired to stop.

There was no way he could do anything about his bonds – he couldn't reach the knot and they were too thick to break through. There wasn't even a convenient nail he could use to cut through them. But a little investigation told him that he could slide the ropes where they attached to the pipe, move around the room slowly by following them. It was difficult and frustrating, but eventually he had moved over enough so he was directly beside Christophe.

A voice might have come in useful at that point. As it was, Gregory was able to use his shoulder and arm to nudge Christophe, trying to rouse him. The Frenchman had begun stirring as Gregory started his movements and at the touch, turned his head.

Gregory managed a frustrated sound in his throat. He had been right, there was something covering the upper part of Christophe's face – not a mask, but duct tape, wound tightly several times around his head, covering his eyes and most of his nose. If they ripped it off, his eyebrows and half of his hair would come with and it was going to sting like a bitch. And this didn't seem to be the cheap stuff either, if it was bound to his skin then he could lose quite a bit if they rushed to get it off.

And it raised a new problem. Gregory couldn't speak and would have to rely on gestures and signs – only now, Christophe would be unable to see them. Their communication was effectively cut off.

Christophe remained silent and tense, unspeaking, his upper lip split open from a recent blow and blood drying in a trail over his chin. It was probable he was quiet in case there was an enemy in the room – he couldn't see for himself and Gregory couldn't tell him they were alone. But those things were of little concern, the priority was getting free.

Turning as much as he could, Gregory used what little movements his hands had to trace the ropes that bound Christophe to the pipes. The knot was there, in reach of his fingers and he set about trying to untie it. It was difficult work, being unable to see it or having as much motion as he would like, but taking it slowly and carefully, he was able to finally loosen the knot. Mentally, he counted down the minutes. Twenty-two had passed before he was able to work the knot successfully and that was not good at all.

Once the knot was loosened enough to widen the loop around Christophe's wrists, the Frenchman shook the rope off without taking his hands from behind his back, pitching his voice low. "I can't see. Is zere anyone else 'ere?"

Gregory made a negative sound, hoping that Christophe knew what the hell he was trying to communicate. Apparently the message was received, because he took his hands from behind him and tugged a couple of times on the tape around his face, giving a pained, disgusted noise before reaching out and touching Gregory's arm, feeling his way down until he got to the wrists and the bonds that tied him to the pipes. Christophe worked slightly faster than Gregory had thanks to his greater mobility, but was still hampered by his lack of vision.

Finally the ropes loosened and Gregory leant down to untie his own legs, seeing Christophe do the same. He had the ropes undone in short minutes, Christophe a moment later while bitching about how they had taken his knives.

Christophe's hands reached up once more to yank at the tape around his head and Gregory knelt in front of him, batting them away so he could examine it himself. It was as he had feared; the tape was tight enough and strong enough that it would take a long time and a lot of messing about dissolving the adhesive to get it off without taking a large amount of Christophe's face with it. Time was the one thing they didn't have. For the moment, Christophe would have to remain blind.

"I'm stuck zis way, aren't I?" Christophe sounded deeply annoyed and Gregory chuckled, unable to agree.

But the almost-silence had aroused Christophe's suspicions and he reached out a hand, aiming in Gregory's general direction. "Gregory?"

"Hmmm?"

"Say something."

Gregory again tried to make the muscles in his jaw move enough to loosen the solvent, but it wasn't happening. Instead, he caught Christophe's hand and drew it to his mouth.

Gently, Christophe traced a finger across Gregory's lips, his face darkening in anger as he felt the solid mass against them, the trails that had dribbled down his face and dried there. His examination seemed to confirm that there was nothing that could be done to loosen the glue right then and Christophe instead stroked further up Gregory's face, confirming that the other did not have the same issue with sight as he did.

"You 'ave got to be shitting me," he growled, not taking his hand away once he found no trace of tape binding Gregory's eyes.

Gregory shook his head, relieved that at least Christophe could feel the movement.

"Are you 'urt?"

Again, Gregory shook his head. There were pains, wounds and stiffness in his limbs from their positions, but nothing that would inhibit his movements and nothing that he could easily communicate without voice.

"And 'ow long do we 'ave left?"

Gregory's hand was still on Christophe's wrist and he tightened his grip around the spot where Christophe's watch would usually be, alerting him to the fact that everything they had that might have been of use – weapons, ammunition, watches, rope – had been liberated from them.

"Zen, we 'ave to get out of 'ere right now." Christophe lowered his hand and Gregory got to his feet, taking hold of Christophe's arm as he got up.

"I'm blind, not 'andicapped." Christophe folded his arms huffily and Gregory let go, trying to smirk. After a few seconds, Christophe seemed to realise what his main problem was going to be.

"Uh, actually, if you could guide me...?"

Gregory reached out and took Christophe's hand, tightening his grip as he led them to the door. Quietly, in case there was someone outside, he tried the handle. Locked.

Exhaling loudly through his nose, he examined the lock. In the poor light, he could determine a few things about the door; clearly the room had not been intended for use as a cell and the lock was functional and old, not strong. Had they any tools, they could break out, but they didn't. A few strong kicks could perhaps dislodge it, but not only would that attract attention, he doubted he was strong enough for the job. _Christophe _could manage, but when he couldn't even see the door, how would he be able to judge the distance and the locks whereabouts?

There wasn't time. They would have to risk the noise and he was going to have to be Christophe's eyes – and hope that he could communicate the plan solely through touch.

He guided Christophe's hand forward until it reached the handle and the lock, pressing the man's hand against the metal. Christophe felt around the metal, using what information he could feel to ascertain its condition. "You want me to break it?"

"Mmm-hmmm." Gregory was grateful for the small mercy of being able to make a few sounds to indicate agreement or the negative, but he had always been a talker, smart-mouthed, sarcastic, never at a loss for words. He had never anticipated how losing his speech could make him feel so powerless. He focused for a moment on what he would do once they were escaped and he got this mess out of his mouth; he would watch low-brow television just to make cutting remarks at the screen, he would find some loud music and sing along for all he was worth, he would telephone everyone he knew and hold a long conversation with them all. By the time his psyche was recovered, everyone would be sick of the sound of his voice.

Christophe took a step back and Gregory gave him room, noting how the other was more cautious in weighing up the force needed than usual, having only his hands and his sense of measurements to ensure he hit in the right place. There was a moments pause, the Christophe kicked the door as hard as he could, hitting the lock with the heel of his boot. There was a crack as wood splintered, a thud as Christophe lost his balance and landed on his ass, having hit the door too hard from too near and inadvertently pushed himself backward.

Gregory began to laugh at the sight; but unable to open his mouth the sounds came out in a series of throaty chuckles and snorts. Christophe turned his head in the general direction he stood in and Gregory knew he was getting the death glare from somewhere beneath the duct tape. That just made him laugh harder. There were no shouts from beyond the door and he saw no harm in allowing himself a momentary amusement.

Until suddenly, he realised he was having trouble breathing.

He stopped laughing immediately, cursing himself. The action had affected his breathing and it wasn't as if he could take air through his mouth to get more oxygen. He struggled to regulate his inhalations, his lungs heaving against his bruised chest and the pain diverting his focus, making controlling himself even harder.

Instinctively, his mouth tried to force itself open and the pain as flesh tore caused him to take another sharp breath, just as he should have been breathing out. Black spots danced before his eyes as he forgot everything else in his need to just _breathe_...

"Gregory!"

Christophe might not have been able to see him, but he couldn't certainly hear how Gregory's chuckles had suddenly altered to rapid, shallow breaths. He stood quickly, reaching his arms out in front of him and taking hurried but careful steps toward Gregory, sweeping his hands about until he finally came in contact with the others shirt. He grabbed a fistful of it and used his other hand to take Gregory's shoulder.

"Sit." He bore down on Gregory's shoulder, manoeuvring him to the floor and crouching in front of him. "Lean forward. Relax."

Gregory did as he was told, the cramped position meaning he was able to get his lungs under control and regulate his breathing. After a minute or so he was taking deep, heavy breaths, no longer in danger of passing out from lack of oxygen.

"You are going to 'ave to be careful," said Christophe. "If you can't use your mouth, zen you 'ave to keep breathing steady."

Gregory raised an eyebrow in a wasted gesture. There was no way he could keep his breathing steady if they were forced to make a run for it, but he wasn't going to impart that knowledge to Christophe and make himself look vulnerable.

"And if we 'ave to run," said Christophe with a grin, having already considered the thought. "I will 'ave to carry you."

Gregory growled and sent Christophe a two-fingered salute that the other couldn't see.

"I know you're cursing me out Gregory. Zat will teach you to laugh."

"Hrmph." Gregory got up and examined the lock. The wood around it had splintered and it was barely held in place. Another blow would dislodge it and although he knew he should leave it to Christophe, instead he put his shoulder to the door and slammed against it. The weakened wood gave still further and the door sprang open.

Gregory jumped back into the room and flattened himself against the wall, just in case there was someone outside awaiting his exit and started to shoot. But there was only silence and he sneaked a look around the door, seeing only a darkened corridor and no guards in sight.

He headed back over to Christophe and took his hand, tugging him over toward the exit. Christophe kept his voice low and sarcastic. "_Oui_, zat's a _really_ good way to control your breathing."

Gregory tightened his grip on Christophe's hand painfully. Christophe responded in kind, using his stronger hand to almost crush Gregory's. Then as they went out of the door, they ceased their unspoken argument and went on full alert.

He had studied the buildings blueprints carefully, had them practically etched on his brain, but it occurred to Gregory that they were only helpful so long as he had a known starting point. The factory was generic and there was no real way of knowing which corridor they were in.

He cast his mind back, cursing the blow to the head that had messed up his memory. He knew where they _had_ been when they had been taken prisoner and if he followed the progress as they were hurried to the makeshift cell, he knew they must be quite close to an exit. Unfortunately, it was not where they had entered and was one they had dismissed as being likely to be guarded and highly visible from within. He might still have taken the chance, but they were without weapons and Christophe couldn't see. It was no good.

Then he recalled the way in which the factory was shaped, a corridor that was out of sight of where they supposed the main activity was and if they were to emerge there, it wasn't likely they would be seen. However, there were no doors. The windows were made of a reinforced material that would be difficult to break through and there was still the problem of his inability for exertion and Christophe's sight.

But the shadows in the corridor that came from the windows told him their options were limited and deteriorating with every minute that passed. The light was changing, fading. At 2100 hours, the bombs would detonate and if they were still in the building, they would die.

He led Christophe in the direction he devoutly hoped their escape route was in, looking out for anything that would hinder them, listening for footsteps or voices. He trod softly and although he didn't hurry, he didn't want to take too long either. Rushing would mean less awareness of their surroundings and lingering was a _very_ bad idea.

As they reached the end of the corridor he stopped, squeezing Christophe's hand to indicate he should do the same. Carefully, he checked the corridor branching off from the one they were in, hiding in the shadows as much as possible. He saw no one. He held still for a moment, straining to hear, but there were no sounds. The whole place was quiet.

He started forward again, leading Christophe, who was doing his best to tread confidently in spite of the unseen path. "Zey did not expect us to escape zere cell, huh?"

_Rookie mistake_, Gregory wanted to say. People rarely expected their battered and bound captives to walk out of a locked room, but Gregory would never have taken that kind of a risk. Even if they needed as much help for their next attack as they could get – and Gregory had ascertained that it was to be set up in the early hours of the following morning thanks to the information he had gleaned off the terrorists, ahead of the deadline they had given – it was still a bad idea to leave the enemy without at least one man to shoot them if they tried to escape. They had been searched upon capture and no materials of sabotage had been found on them but again, Gregory would have assumed that was because the bombs had already been planted, as was in fact the case.

"I 'ope zey don't 'ave cameras," whispered Christophe. "Mercenaries should not be seen 'olding 'ands on a mission, even if zey are blind. It's fucking _weak_."

Gregory chuckled in his throat and Christophe tightened his hand warningly, as if Gregory needed reminding of the last time he had started laughing. Pausing, he compared their surroundings to the blueprints in his memory. If he was right, the next corner should take them onto the corridor he thought right for their escape. Hoping their luck held out, he headed quickly in that direction, stopping Christophe as they approached the end and peering around the corner.

The man had his back to them, which was the only advantage Gregory could see. He hadn't noticed the escapees but in the second before Gregory ducked back out of sight should he turn, he could see the gun in a hip holster, the sheer size of the man – he was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. There was a cigarette smouldering between his fingers, almost finished and Gregory surmised that he had been assigned to guard their door and wandered off for a smoke, out of boredom or a need to stretch his legs. If that were the case, he would be heading back their way any second.

He pushed Christophe back against the wall, resting a finger against the others lips to give the message to be silent. Christophe tensed, clearly getting the picture. Inwardly cursing, Gregory ran their options through his head. They weren't many and they weren't good. Their best chance was the element of surprise.

Looking around, he realised immediately that there was nothing he could use as a weapon. He had been hoping for something, anything, as they travelled the factory, but so far nothing. Not even a plank of wood, let alone several fully-loaded Uzis, which would have been favourite. The guard was taller and broader than either of them and the whole business was going to be a risk.

He heard the sound of footsteps as the guard came back.

The guard rounded the corner, clearly thinking of something other than his duty, only to be confronted by the blonde intruder he had left tied and locked up. Before he could process what that might mean, Gregory punched him in the face. Blood flew as his nose broke and the guard staggered backward, cupping his hands to his face but not going down.

_Shit_, thought Gregory.

Not willing to give up the advantage, Gregory dived in again, intent on taking the man down where it would be easier to deal with him. But although he was strong, the other man was stronger and Gregory was alarmed to find himself concentrating more on taking breaths than he was on fighting.

The guard raised an arm to protect his head and Gregory's second blow landed on his forearm, painful but not debilitating. Then the man swung his other arm around, more by instinct than anything else, catching Gregory in his already bruised torso. He stumbled aside, his breathing harsh thanks to his limited intake, taking up a more defensive posture – not that it was going to help, he realised immediately. The guard dropped his hand to the gun, pulling it from the holster, growling curses.

And then Christophe barrelled into the guard, knocking him down and landing heavily on top, reaching out and finding his face. The heel of his hand against the guards chin, he slammed down hard, bouncing the man's skull off the concrete floor several times in rapid succession.

The guards eyes rolled back in his head as he lost consciousness, but Christophe saw none of that, nor the blood that was pooling under his head, continuing his assault until Gregory rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I take it 'e is down?"

"Mmm-hmm." Gregory patted the guard down, taking the gun, a hunting knife and a spare clip. Then he grabbed the guards arm, smirking as he noticed the digital watch on his wrist and unfastening it quickly, the expression fading as he checked the time. If the watch was accurate, they had about twelve minutes left until detonation. Their capture had cost them more time than he had thought.

He glanced at the hunting knife, wondering if he could use it to slice through the tape around Christophe's head and quickly dismissing the idea. It would be a delicate operation and their time was running out. It would take too long and every minute they remained meant a greater risk of discovery. Had they another ten minutes he might have risked it – _would_ have risked it – but they didn't.

The gun would come in useful though.

Rounding the corner from which the guard had come, Gregory was relieved to see that his internal map had been correct; they were exactly where he had hoped they would be. Of course, if his calculations on their visibility were wrong, or if there was anyone in the immediate vicinity, they were finished.

Pulling Christophe behind him, he stopped in front of one of the windows, listening. He could hear nothing from within the building and no sounds from outside. It didn't matter anyway, they had to leave right _now_, even if there was an entire squadron of enemies on the other side of the glass.

Holding the gun by the barrel, Gregory checked the safety was on and brought the gun down against the window. He could have shot it out, but he didn't want the noise to alert anyone and there was the danger of ricochet if it didn't break. And it was tough, the glass reinforced to prevent casual vandalism or serious attempts at breaking in. He smashed the gun repeatedly into the same spot, gratified as the plexiglass began to spiderweb.

"My muzzer could break a window faster zan zis!"

Gregory growled and hit the window again, the grip going through this time, creating a small hole. He checked the watch; less than nine minutes. It was going to be close.

Shoving the gun in his belt, he used his hands to pull at the perspex, yanking out thick chunks until there was a gap large enough for them to climb through. Taking the gun, he used the grip again to clear away some of the larger, sharper pieces from the frame. They would probably get some good cuts, but that was preferable to taking any longer.

The window was about four feet from the floor; leaning out he saw no guards, nor could he see silhouettes in the windows nearest to them. They would have to chance that no one saw them. Taking hold of Christophe's hand, he stretched it toward the windowsill and rested it there, giving Christophe a few moments to feel around the gap and determine where and how large it was. Then he gave Christophe a none-too-gentle shove, suggesting without words that he hustle.

Christophe boosted himself up, hauling himself out of the gap with relative ease and landing with a thud outside, immediately raising his hand in the air. Gregory placed the gun in his grip, just in case they were seen by someone outside, although how much luck Christophe would have with the weapon was debatable without the use of his sight. Then Gregory followed, catching his shirt on a jagged piece of perspex and tearing a large hole, another shard slicing through the skin on his hand but otherwise he was uninjured.

"Is zere anyone around?" Christophe asked in a low voice as Gregory landed on the ground beside him.

Gregory made a negative sound as he checked around. Breaking the window hadn't made as much noise as a bullet shattering glass would have done and the group seemed to be inside the building still.

"I wish I knew 'ow long we 'ad left," muttered Christophe irritably.

Checking the watch, Gregory widened his eyes and took Christophe's hand, tracing a number 5 on the back with his fingernail before dragging him away. Christophe seemed to get the message, because he didn't ask questions, merely picked up the pace, occasionally stumbling over uneven ground.

They had left their transport several miles away, not wanting to announce their presence with an engine, but there were Jeeps and vans belonging to the group nearby, even an ancient ford. If any of them survived the blast they could come in useful, but right then, it would take too long to break into them and they were too close; they needed to put some distance between themselves and the factory, fast.

Gregory came as close to running as he dared. With Christophe unable to see, too much speed could cause him to fall and anyone giving an idle glance in their direction would be more suspicious to see people fleeing. It would be prudent to get several hundred metres away at least though, preferably behind something large and fireproof, although the last wasn't likely.

Eventually though, his own difficulty in getting more breath forced him to slow. He judged the distance behind them, not as far as he would have liked, but, if they were lucky, far enough. He had never realised just how much he relied on being able to get air through his mouth before.

"Is zis ze part where I carry you?" Christophe's voice was superficially teasing, but there was an undercurrent of concern and determination; if they weren't far enough away, he would have to. Gregory shook his head, realised that Christophe couldn't see the gesture and hoped that he got the message when he didn't automatically jump up for a piggy-back.

At that point, the factory exploded.

The shock wave knocked them both to the ground, landing in the dirt as windows blew outwards, walls collapsed, the roof caved in. From beneath the ruins, it was possible to see flames attempting to gain purchase, but were hidden and partially smothered by the falling masonry.

"What's 'appening?" asked Christophe urgently.

Recalling the hunting knife he had liberated from the guard, Gregory checked to see if he still had it – he did – and knelt beside Christophe as the factory continued to fall to a series of smaller explosions, most likely from the explosives already hidden within. He used the blade to cut the tape around Christophe's hair, giving him an impromptu trim by necessity. Once he had finished, the tape was still attached to his face but not winding around his head and giving more freedom to work it slowly free. That one, Christophe could do by himself.

"_Merci_." Christophe began trying to work the tape free, the sweat on his face and the lessened amount of tape making his job easier than it had been, although it was obvious to Gregory that it would still take time to loosen properly. Glancing back at the factory, he scanned the parking area. There was a Jeep at the outer edge that seemed to have escaped serious injury in the blast, although the windows were shattered. Better yet, it had an open top and all he would have to do would be to hot-wire it, making it far easier to get to their own transport and hopefully, to some chemical that might dissolve the glue on his face.

He tried to indicate to Christophe that he should wait by pushing him further into the dirt and resting a hand momentarily on his chest before heading back to the factory. It was a risky proposition – should there be another major explosion, he'd be in trouble – but he deemed it an acceptable risk. He'd had quite enough of _this_ mission.

Some burning debris had fallen in the back-seat and Gregory beat out a small fire before leaning under the dash and hotwiring the Jeep, driving over to Christophe while checking out the burning factory in the rear view mirror. Not bad. There didn't seem to be anyone escaping the inferno, but it would attract attention sooner rather than later and they needed to move before they were caught.

By the time he got back, Christophe had freed more of the tape around his face and was peering out from beneath it irritably, muttering curses. But when Gregory pulled up in the Jeep and leaned out of the shattered window he looked up, blinking against the light from the fire and gave a relieved grin.

Gregory rolled his eyes as Christophe hesitated at the door to the Jeep, jerking his head sharply in a get-in gesture. Christophe merely smirked, taking his time as he climbed in. "Just checking zat you told ze truth about not being 'urt," he said casually, propping his feet up on the dash as Gregory put the Jeep in gear and drove away. "Zere's no telling what you get up to when you're out of sight."

Giving the closest he could get to a sigh, Gregory merely shook his head, concentrating on driving. Christophe checked the glove compartment and found a half-empty packet of cigarettes, much to his delight. "You want one?"

Gregory glared at him.

"Oh, _oui_, sorry." Christophe looked anything but as he searched for a lighter. "It's so quiet. I could get used to zis. Maybe we should leave you like zat."

Taking a hand off the wheel, Gregory mimed with surprising accuracy exactly what he thought of that idea, reflecting that one the plus side, his current condition made it a lot easier to be not talking to the man.

"Huh, you'll forgive me." Christophe gave a smile around the cigarette in his mouth. "You always do."

That much at least was true. But Gregory decided as he drove toward a place where they could hide out safely, the moment he was able to speak again, the first thing he wanted to do was teach Christophe to take the piss.


	5. Cold

**Author Note: **I wrote this story back in September as a birthday gift for my good friend Evil Chibi Kitten. She's kindly agreed to let me post this as part of this collection and I'm very grateful - thanks dude! She's a major Bunny fan and I was racking my brains trying to come up with a plotline, as I'd never written the pairing before. This is a little odd, but I hope you all enjoy it.

~:~:~

"I've been having the strangest dreams lately," says Butters, seemingly out of the blue. To Stan, who has been waiting for him to spit out whatever it was bothering him, it's an invitation to ask for more. Stan, who took numerous psych courses before finally deciding to go into veterinary science, has never been able to resist analysing his friends. Some think it makes him a good listener and a fountain of advice, others think it makes him a pain in the ass, Stan sometimes thinks it his own way of coming to terms with the mark their odd childhoods have left upon them all.

He pours Butters another drink; they are in the apartment he shares with Kyle although his room mate is gone for the moment, visiting his brother at college. Butters showed up unexpectedly, the first sign of a problem. Butters is not the kind of person to drop in unannounced unless he has good reason, in fact Butters is more likely to try to book a conversation a week in advance. After all this time, he still does not truly feel that he belongs.

"I-it's Kenny," says Butters after a few careful questions, staring into his glass and swishing the wine around. "I dream about Kenny."

Stan is unsurprised. He too dreams frequently of Kenny, who out of all of them was always the strangest before he vanished into the realm of memory and uncertainty. Kenny could walk the line between life and death, Heaven and Hell; he had seen things that most mortals would never imagine and he always returned seemingly unaffected by the experience. Except in those eyes, those almost-hidden blue eyes that showed the depths of his experiences.

In Stan's dreams, which have been plaguing him since Kenny disappeared into myth, Kenny tells him that he is trapped. The location changes seemingly without meaning, but the message remains the same. He has always thought it his minds own way of coping with not knowing, that he is struggling to hold on to his friends memory.

"I dream about him," adds Butters redundantly, his voice low.

"Start from the beginning," suggests Stan, who is already looking forward to poking holes in the tapestry of Butters imaginings and letting shine through the light of rationale. "What do you dream?"

He dreams, explains Butters, that he is walking to Starks Pond at night, the light from the town hidden and only the moon to guide him. It twinkles from the ever-present layer of snow, in this landscape unspoiled by trespassers, and the night is silent, silent. The wind tugs at his hair, chills him through the thin layer of clothing he has chosen for this fools errand, whatever it may be. Perhaps once he arrives he will know more, for the moment he is clueless.

The pond comes into view through the trees, frozen over, a thousand times more beautiful in the imagination than reality could ever make it. This place, where Butters has played and skated and swum in that brief annual week of summer, seems familiar and yet unknown, an enchanted place through the eyes of another.

There is a fallen tree that does not exist in reality, lying close to the edge of the pond and upon it, he sees the familiar silhouette of a young man, his arms wrapped around himself, breath escaping his body in silver clouds as moisture meets freezing air. Butters heads forward to speak with him, but timidly, he does not wish to intrude on what might be a personal moment. He is sure the sound of his footsteps crunching on the snow will distract the boy, but there is no sign that he has heard and it is then that Butters realises there are no footprints leading to or away from the fallen tree, as if the boy has materialised there out of nothing. For some reason, this insight does not cause him fear and he sits on the log beside the boy, giving sideways glances, unable to see his face due to the ever-present hood. Several strands of blonde hair escape the confinement and dance in the breeze.

_Kenny_, whispers Butters.

Kenny turns to look at him for a moment, revealing those deathless blue eyes before turning away. Butters can see the dark shadows beneath them, that his skin is pale, but all other evidence that something is wrong is hidden behind the hood, as it always has been.

There is thick rope coiled around Kenny's feet, but Butters cannot see if it is attached to him or if the boy has dropped it from numb fingers to fall as it has.

_It's cold down here,_ Kenny tells him, his words muffled by the hood, his voice sounding thick and wrong.

Butters reaches out to touch Kenny's arm and almost withdraws; his coat is soaked through. It is only the part of Butters that is kind that allows him to move closer, to keep from pulling away. In this snow, as wet as he is, Kenny must be close to death. But then, Kenny and death have always come as a package.

_The dead should not come back,_ says Kenny in that new, strange voice. _It's an abomination, an atrocity, an offence. So I'm bound. Trapped. Cold..._

No longer able to bear the hopelessness and lack of life in Kenny's voice, Butters scootches further along the log and pulls Kenny into his arms. The water from Kenny's clothes dampens Butters shirt immediately, the thin fabric clinging to him. But he refuses to let Kenny go. It is as if Kenny has become some kind of vacuum, sucking all the heat from Butters body and leaving him frozen, but still he refuses to lessen his grip.

Kenny turns again to look into Butters eyes, the blue that once danced with secrets and life now appearing glassy and unreal. For the first time, Butters feels fear.

_Help me..._

"And that's where I wake up," Butters finishes, a long way from the chill of Starks Pond, but he shivers anyway. "I wake up cold."

Stan tries to look merely interested, but he is unnerved. It's the use of that word, _trapped_, all too similar to his own bad dreams. "Don't tell me you wake up soaked in water."

Butters gives a short laugh. "Well gee, if I did, I'd know it wasn't just a dream."

Stan's lips twitch up into a slight smile, he had forgotten that sometimes, Butters can cut right to the heart of an issue without seeming to have that intent. "It _was _only a dream though Butters, you know that, right?"

"Yeah," replies Butters, but he sounds unconvinced.

"There's too much wrong with it," continues Stan, suddenly needing to prove to himself if no one else that there is no chance it could be anything else. "I mean, how long has it been since anyone saw Kenny?"

"Two years," replies Butters gravely. Stan hears the reproach and cringes a little, but he doesn't really need to be told, the question is strictly rhetorical.

"Right. And he hadn't worn the hood all the time in at least five years before that. It's a hangover from childhood, not a literal representation. And you said it wasn't his voice, that he didn't talk like himself."

Butters looks candidly back at Stan. "They were his _eyes_."

"They're just the part of him you remember most," replied Stan. "It'd be hard to forget them."

Frowning, Stan pours them another drink. Neither of them are usually big drinkers, at least not when they're together, but the conversation has made them both uncomfortable, with the subject, with their unanswered questions, with their inability to do anything but talk and drink and wonder.

"He's never been gone this long before," says Stan abruptly. It's the truth, one spoken in the recesses of everyone's mind but rarely said out loud, in case the words carried the weight to change the virtue of hope.

Butters nods, not looking up at Stan, seemingly refusing to acknowledge what he has said. "My dad used to say that dreams want to be real. He said that when we wake up, they hang on to our minds and try to escape into the real world. The strongest ones can last for as long as half a day and that's why I should only have pure thoughts, so I could only have good dreams."

Stan finds this idea typical of the Stotch parents brand of child raising, using the implication of fear to control everything about Butters, even his thoughts. He refrains from saying Butters dad is an asshole though, because although the idea is patently ridiculous, he also finds it quaintly awful.

"Did he ever say what happened if they _did_ escape?"

Butters plays with the stem of his glass. "He said that the good ones never do. And the bad ones eat you alive."

"Oh, nice."

Lost in their morbid discussion, neither notices the time until it has gotten very late and both have had rather too much to drink. Stan insists that Butters takes Kyle's room rather than taking the fifteen minute walk home and Butters agrees without putting up much of an argument, thinking that Stan is deluding himself if he thinks even Butters could be fooled by calling the rarely used room Kyle's – it is clear to anyone who cares, and even those who don't, exactly where Kyle sleeps and the extra room is purely for show. Or as Kenny once said, _I don't know who those two think they're foolin', or why they even bother tryin'. We all know they got a karmic-chi-love-thing goin' on._

Butters thinks back to the way Kenny spoke when he said that, teasing and affection in his voice, no trace of malice, or the despair that has infected the words he hears in his dream. He can remember Kenny's melodious tone that day, his mouth curled into a confident smile, his eyes meeting Butters as if to impart some great secret that he hadn't spoken of, sparkling with life and hope and good humour. The memory of that look that is Butters last conscious thought before sleep claims him.

But with sleep comes the dream and the dream is always the same.

It's Stan who shakes Butters awake, dark hair mussed but there is no sign of sleep in his eyes. Butters sits up hurriedly, his eyes adjusting to the dark thanks to the thin strip of light coming from the hallway and recognises Stan, the surroundings that comprise 'Kyle's room'. He shudders, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to lend himself heat, although he feels as though he will never be warm again; the chill has set into his bones.

"I-I'm okay Stan," he says shakily, surprised that his breath does not fog the air when he speaks. He feels as though the air he exhales is spitting out the frost within.

Stan runs a hand through his hair in distraction. "You were shouting," he says by way of explanation. "About the cold... was it Kenny again?"

Butters nods slowly, rubbing at his arms. "It's always Kenny," he says in a low voice, reminding Stan of the times he and Kyle have speculated there is more to the relationship Kenny and Butters have – _had_ – than meets the eye. What that might be he doesn't know; Kenny was always full of secrets but he doubts that he would have kept something like that to himself, while Butters was and still is an open book. For the most part at least, there is something in Butters eyes that tells Stan he is not sharing everything.

"It's like..." Butters looks up at Stan through weary eyes. "Like he's trying to tell me something. But he won't just come out and say it."

"It's just a dream Butters," says Stan uneasily. "Get some more sleep. You'll feel better about it in the morning."

"I've been thinking that since the first morning Kenny disappeared," replies Butters with a humourless laugh, but he settles back down beneath the covers, drawing them around himself for comfort.

"Seriously?" Stan frowns. "You've been having this dream for that long? But we didn't really start worrying about him for a couple of weeks."

"Maybe you didn't," says Butters, closing his eyes. "Because Kenny always comes back. But this time he didn't – because somewhere, he's trapped."

Stan hesitates, wanting to see if there's more, but Butters begins breathing slowly and regularly and he realises that in spite of the nightmares, Butters is too exhausted to let sleep elude him for long. Quietly, he leaves the room and returns to his own, wishing more than anything that Kyle were here to help him work out what is happening.

What Butters might have said, had he not fallen asleep, was that back then the dream was rare, coming once every few weeks, allowing him to function from day to day. But recently, it has become more frequent, until every time he closes his eyes, all he sees is Kenny, cold and lifeless and lost.

~:~

Butters finds himself once again at Starks Pond, Kenny wet and shivering in his arms. He pulls the other closer, trying to lend him warmth but feeling only as if Kenny is draining him, until he must become as frozen as the boy he is trying to help.

Still, Butters cannot let him go. He has never been able to, even though it feels like hanging on will kill him.

Kenny leans back, allowing Butters to see his face, eyes without hope.

_Help me..._

Butters gasps, fear running through his body as rapidly as the heat is leaving it. He fights against the instinct to flee, the sheer exhaustion he has been subject to of late the only reason he does not succeed in jerking himself from sleep. And still, he holds on to Kenny, feeling the sodden clothing beneath his arms leeching him of strength.

Kenny's mouth opens as if to speak again, vomiting out a mouthful of water that makes Butters cry out in disgust and shock. The water is cold, so cold that it almost burns as it douses Butters, making his shirt almost as wet as Kenny's own clothes.

And then Kenny is choking on the water, struggling for breath, his eyes looking back at Butters helplessly.

"_Kenny!"_

Butters grabs Kenny around the chest, trying to remember what he should do for someone who is drowning – Heimlich? Turn them over? But Kenny is drowning without dying and Butters starts to panic.

"Kenny, I – I'll help you, just hold on, I'm..."

Kenny slumps in his arms, water spilling from his mouth in a seemingly unending torrent, although there cannot possibly be this much in his stomach. His chest hitches feebly, as if fighting to fill his lungs.

"_KENNY!"_

It is his own scream that drags Butters from the recesses of sleep and he sits bolt upright, heart pounding heavily in his chest, hearing Stan hit the floor in the other room with a hasty thud. He shivers uncontrollably, but he does not bother to try to warm himself. Heat may or may not return later, for now, there are more important things on his mind.

Stan throws the door open and stares into the room, blinking owlishly at Butters. "Holy shit, are you okay?"

"...So cold," murmurs Butters to himself. "It's so _cold_ down there."

"Butters?"

Butters rouses himself, looking up at Stan through wild eyes, scrambling in his hurry to get out of bed. "Come on, we've gotta go."

"_Go?"_ Stan looks so bewildered that Butters almost laughs. "Go _where_?"

Butters pauses in the middle of dragging on his clothes, looking Stan dead in the eye. "We're going to free Kenny."

~:~

"Those people, the ones who said Kenny was – well, wrong." Butters stares out of the window as Stan drives, unsure as to why he is facilitating this delusion, but wracked with the feeling that something is very, very wrong. "That cult that tried to recruit a bunch of folk in town. You remember them?"

"Like I could forget." Stan changes gears, focusing his vision on the road. "An abomination, they called him. As if the cycle was something he had any control over."

"Yeah." Butters pauses, considering. "After Kenny went missing, they got awfully quiet about it. We just thought it was because he was out of sight. I thought..." He laughs, but there's no humour in the sound. "I thought maybe he'd left to get a little peace from them."

"Just another bunch of crazies," says Stan. "They're long gone."

"I know."

Stan looks over to Butters. "You think they did something, don't you? You think they found a way to keep him dead."

"No." Butters shakes his head emphatically. "I don't think they kept him dead. I think they found a way to keep him from staying alive."

Stan frowns. "I don't get it."

They pull up at Starks Pond and Butters is out of the car almost before it stops. Stan jumps out after him, grateful that in the early hours of the morning, there is no one to see them, they probably look crazy themselves.

Butters hurries to the edge of the pond, staring at its waters as if he has never seen them before. It is close to summer and the ice has melted, but the water is still terribly cold.

"What if Kenny came back to find there was no air?" asks Butters, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. "That his first breath sucked in nothing but water? He'd drown Stan. And he'd die. And then he'd come back, only for the same thing to happen, again and again and again..."

Stan pales in sudden, horrified understanding. "You think Kenny's down there."

"I don't think so," replies Butters. "I know it. Kenny told me."

Stan thinks how it must be to be Kenny, to be trapped in the cycle of life and death, finding himself being killed before he can draw breath. He thinks of the pain of drowning, dark, cold water filling airless lungs. Of how hopeless it would feel to wake to that over and over, without the chance of salvation or an end to suffering.

He fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it in his need to get someone there who can help them. The pond is deep in the centre and the townspeople have lost their children to it before, small bodies falling through thin ice and vanishing into the depths. The local authorities are equip to deal with such tragedies.

He calls to tell them there is a body beneath the water.

Butters stares out over the water, his heart feeling like a lump of ice within his chest. The scene is peaceful, quiet, the trees casting shadows, the moonlight reflecting on the still pond. In his mind, he can see what lies beneath the calm, at the very bottom of the pond where none of them have ever managed to dive to. Rusted cars, dumped there rather than junked, the floating debris of everyday life that has been dropped there, weeds struggling through the mess. And Kenny; his feet tied to something too heavy to be moved or buoyed by the water, his hair floating around his head in a halo, face pale and untouched by sun. Butters envisions those blue eyes opening, hands reaching for the surface even as the body takes an involuntary gasp that brings nothing but rushing, choking death.

"I'm here Kenny," he says quietly, the cold seeping into his bones. "We're coming for you. Don't give up."

He takes a step forward as if to enter the water, dive beneath the surface and head down as fast and as far as he can, to ignore the way the water hurts his eyes and hunt out Kenny, try to tell him they have found him. Stan reaches forward and catches his wrist.

"Don't," he says in a voice that is supposed to be stern, but comes out more shaken than anything. "You can't make it. Stay here."

"But it's cold down there," says Butters, almost whimpering the words.

And then the police arrive and the calm is shattered.

The officers are used to such strange occurrences and although a close eyes is kept on the men, there are surprisingly few questions about how they can be sure there is a body in the pond. There are however, graphic threats about the consequences of playing a joke. Stan tries to reassure them that this is no joke, that time is of the essence. But Butters ignores them all, his entire attention on the rescue attempts.

Daylight is touching the trees when a diver emerges from the lake, summoning the attention of the officer watching from a boat. A moment later, the boat radios in a message to those waiting on the banks.

They have found a body.

Butters closes his eyes and wishes for the whole thing to be over.

They are commendably quick, the diver taking a heavy rope into the depths in order to pull the corpse out of the water – as Butters has known all along, there is something trapping it, preventing it from surfacing. By the time dawn arrives proper, they are winching their find from the pond. It is hard to see from where they are, but Butters notices a flash of faded orange as they struggle to pull the body into the boat. The hardest part is the anchor, what appears to be a cinder block still tied to the body. They cannot remove it until photographs have been taken, evidence of murder catalogued.

The boat returns to dry land, the body itself on the floor, laid on tarpaulin to prevent further evidence from escaping. There is an ambulance awaiting it, but the sirens are dead, mute testimony of the futility of hurrying. There is no need, there is no life to be saved.

Butters and Stan attempt to get closer as the body is loaded with some difficulty onto a stretcher, the concrete block that had weighted it down still attached. Stan tries to explain but these are cops, cops do not listen to reason if there is any way they can avoid doing so. And there is no need for the young men to see the corpse, although it is worryingly fresh, it is not something a civilian needs in the memory.

It is Butters who notices the movement first and breaks free from the officer attempting to hold him back. He dodges a second cop with an ease no one who knew him would ever have guessed at, almost crashing into the stretcher and staring down at the form lying there. Kenny, as he knew it would be, still and pale. His clothes are tattered and faded, even his hair seems to have been bled of colour. His lips are blue, his eyes closed. He does not look peaceful.

His chest hitches.

Kenny opens his eyes wide, revealing the same blue that Butters remembers so well, the same as they have always been, the only true colour remaining in him. He gasps, sucking in a lungful of air and choking it back out, as if the mere act of breathing is agony. He takes in a second breath, noisy, struggling, his face a mask of panic.

Butters takes one of Kenny's cold hands in his own, trying to lend a little warmth, a little comfort.

Kenny's panic fades to confusion as he pants a little more easily, staring up at Butters questioningly. His eyes rest on Butters face, registering tentative hope as he realises he is no longer trapped, no longer drowning. That he might finally have been saved.

Sitting up on the stretcher, Kenny reaches for Butters, pulling him into an embrace and resting his head on the man's shoulder. Butters has not realised he is shivering until Kenny does so, affected by the chill in the early morning air. Kenny is soaked and cold, just as he remembers from his dreams and just like he has dreamed of doing for all this time, he pulls Kenny closer, using his own body to heat Kenny's.

For the first time in a long time, both of them are warm.


End file.
